Yurnos
The planet’s polar aurora was quite striking.
Seen from orbit, it appeared as a shimmering ring of light, hundreds of kilometers across, circling Yurnos’s northern pole. Green shades predominated at the highest altitudes, reminding Spock somewhat of the Antarian glow water he had splashed over the landscape many thousands of kilometers to the south. Shifting ribbons of pink, green, and orange added to the luminous display, which was caused by solar winds exciting ionized particles in the planet’s upper atmosphere, where they had been channeled by Yurnos’s powerful magnetic field. The charged particles expelled the excess energy in the form of photons, producing the aurora, with color dependent on the elements and atoms affected. Periodic fluctuations in the magnetosphere caused the brilliance of the colors to wax and wane per a predictable cycle.
He observed the phenomenon through Galileo’s forward ports as they sped toward the arctic region at the top of the planet. Sensor displays monitored the intensity of the aurora, which generated powerful electromagnetic currents in the atmosphere.
“Are we in time, Mister Spock?”
Chekov manned the helm beside Spock. Like Spock, he was still clad in his borrowed Yurnian garments, there having been neither time nor opportunity to change back into their uniforms. They’d traded Eefa’s wagon for Galileo, leaving the wagon and its team with Jord and Vankov, in order to fly north toward the planet’s higher latitudes in hopes of confirming Spock’s theory regarding the smugglers’ secret route on and off Yurnos.
“I believe so, Ensign.” Spock carefully studied the sensor data while performing the necessary calculations in his head. “In theory, the auroral activity should reach peak intensity in approximately five point three-seven seconds.” He peered out the window directly in front of him as he counted down. “Four, three, two, one . . .”
No obvious sign of the smugglers presented itself. Spock frowned. Was it possible that his conjectures were mistaken? Had he misinterpreted the imprudent remarks he had overheard on the beach, regarding the smugglers’ plans to head north for a light show? He had been certain that he deduced the nature of the “window” they had vaguely alluded to, but what if he was mistaken?
“Mister Spock! Look!” Chekov gestured excitedly at the view through his viewport. “Rising up through the atmosphere, at two o’clock!”
The young human’s keen eyes were not mistaken. Spock suppressed a flicker of excitement as he spied a spacecraft launching into space from the arctic sea hundreds of kilometers below. He increased the magnification on a globular visual monitor positioned at eye level above the instrument panel; the augmented image confirmed that the departing vessel was indeed the submersible shuttlecraft employed by Mars, Venus, and Mercury.
“It appears my calculations were slightly off,” he observed.
“Or perhaps not everyone is as precise as you, Mister Spock.” Chekov’s smirk landed on the right side of not being irritating. “Few people are.”
Spock conceded the point.
His broader theory had certainly been validated. As he’d suspected, the smugglers had been using the planet’s intense polar auroras to mask their comings and goings from conventional sensors. Spock suspected that they scheduled their arrivals and departures in conjunction with predictable cycles of sunspot activity, the planet’s position relative to the standard main-sequence star it orbited, as well as periodic fluctuations in Yurnos’s magnetic field to ensure that the auroras were sufficiently strong enough to interfere with conventional sensor scans. It was, he had to admit, a rather ingenious stratagem. Small wonder they had managed to elude detection for so long.
“Do you think they have spotted us, Mister Spock?”
“I doubt it, Ensign. The aurora will likely mask our presence from their sensors, and they have little reason to be on the lookout for Galileo.”
Chekov chuckled. “What’s good for the goose, eh, Mister Spock?”
“Precisely.”
The smugglers’ craft deployed its retractable nacelles and sped away from Yurnos, heading out of the system. They were wasting no time or fuel in making a clean escape from this region of space. Spock saw its image recede in the monitor.
“Stay after them, Mister Chekov. We do not wish to lose them.”
“Aye, sir.”
Chekov opened up the throttle and Galileo pursued the smugglers’ unnamed spacecraft. The shuttle’s ion drive propelled them out of Yurnos’s orbit and across the solar system, quickly leaving the planet’s sole moon behind as well. Galileo proved a match for the shuttle, whose streamlined, aerodynamic contours provided little advantage in the vacuum of space. Spock watched with satisfaction as they gained on the smugglers, finding this pursuit rather more pleasing than the one they had so recently escaped. Given a choice, he preferred chasing to being chased.
The shuttle exceeded light speed as it exited the system, proceeding into the dark between the stars. Galileo accelerated to keep pace.
“They are heading in the general direction of Baldur III,” Chekov said, consulting the shuttlecraft’s astrogator. “No surprise.”
“Bring us closer, Ensign.”
It was unclear if the other craft was aware that they were being followed. Spock took advantage of their proximity to conduct a thorough scan of the shuttle, recording its surface details, configuration, and energy signatures. The invasive scan yielded valuable data, but also provoked a hostile response.
“Weapons batteries charging,” Spock said sharply. “Raise shields. Raise blast shutters.”
“Aye, sir!”
Chekov flipped a switch, and sturdy duranium shields slid into place above Galileo’s ports. The shutters blocked their view, but Spock and Chekov could still see out of the shuttle via the display globes, which relayed visual data from Galileo’s external sensors. Between the shields and the shutters, the men were armored against most attacks short of a high-grade photon torpedo, which Spock judged unlikely to be found in the arsenal of common smugglers.
A crimson flash of disruptor fire lit up the rear of the other vessel, an instant before the blast slammed into Galileo’s shields, rocking both the vessel and its passengers; fortunately, the shuttlecraft held up against the disruptor beam better than Eefa’s unfortunate henchman had back on Yurnos. A digital display on the instrument panel reported that Galileo’s shields were down precisely 17.862 percent after the assault.
“That packed a punch, Mister Spock.” Chekov kept Galileo on course despite the impact. “I don’t think they like us following them.”
“Prepare to return fire, Ensign.”
Chekov grinned wolfishly. “Music to my ears, sir.”
Spock activated the shuttle’s communication circuits. He hailed the smugglers via the same frequency Eefa’s simple communicator had been tuned to.
“Attention: individuals calling themselves Mars, Venus, and Mercury. This is Commander Spock, representing Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets. Your actions on Yurnos are in violation of the Prime Directive. You are directed to terminate all such operations immediately and turn yourself over to face criminal charges.”
Spock was a realist. He had little expectation that the smugglers would readily surrender to justice, but propriety demanded that he give them the opportunity. If nothing else, he hoped to make it clear that their days of flying below Starfleet’s radar were over.
“Right,” Venus responded to his hail. “Like that’s going to happen. Go jump in a singularity.”
“Mister Chekov, please demonstrate how seriously we take this matter.”
“Aye, sir.”
Galileo fired on the smugglers. Twin phaser beams converged on the aft section of the ship, producing bright cobalt bursts of Cherenkov radiation where they intersected with the other vessel’s deflector shields. The intent was not to actually destroy the other ship or endanger the smugglers’ lives, but merely to bruise their shields enough to demonstrate that Galileo could and would defend itself if necessary.
The smugglers retaliated with another disruptor blast that rattled the shuttle. The fiery red flare briefly filled the globe displays, blinding Galileo, before dissipating into the ether. Spock observed that the shuttle’s shields were now down another 20.008 percent, suggesting that the smugglers had upped the force of their disruptors. They clearly had no intention of surrendering without a fight.
“That you, Vulcan?” Venus asked. “Should have known Eefa wouldn’t have the guts to dispose of you properly. What did you do with her anyway?”
“Eefa is not your concern,” Spock replied. “It is the actions of you and your accomplices that are of relevance at the present moment.”
“Don’t even think you’re taking this tea. We bought it fair and square, and have customers waiting for it.”
“One particular shipment of nabbia is of no consequence,” Spock stated. “Your reckless involvement in Yurnian affairs is the crux of the matter. Understand that Starfleet will not allow this to continue.”
“And you’re going to stop us?” she said. “Get off our tail, if you know what’s good for you. I’m in no big hurry to pick a fight with Starfleet, but I’m sure as hell not going to end up in a Federation rehab colony because of your high-and-mighty Prime Directive.”
“Not to mention the cold-blooded murder of that man on Yurnos,” Chekov retorted, joining the exchange. “He was no friend of ours, but it was his planet, and you killed him on it. Rehabilitation is the least you deserve.”
“And we have the Russian too, it seems,” Venus said. “Thanks for reminding me that you two are witnesses to that little altercation. Guess we can’t have you running back to Starfleet to squeal on us, can we?”
The smugglers’ craft executed a loop, coming around to challenge Galileo head-on. A disruptor blast, much stronger than those previous, nearly threw Spock from his seat. Warning lights began to blink urgently upon the instrument panels. Shields were down to 36.408 percent; that they were now at less than half strength boded poorly for the shuttlecraft’s continued chances of survival if they prolonged the encounter. Spock completed his scans of the smugglers’ vessel.
“Evasive action,” he ordered. “Break off pursuit.”
“I’m trying, Mister Spock, but I think they are pursuing us now!”
Galileo reversed course while returning fire. The shuttlecraft wove back and forth in space, executing a zigzag flight plan to make it harder to target. Disruptor blasts continued to scrape away at their shields, however; Chekov was doing his best, but a percentage of the smugglers’ blasts struck home with varying degrees of accuracy. A glancing blow tilted the shuttle hard to port before the artificial gravity compensated for the angle and stabilized their orientation. An environmental control panel in the passenger cabin overloaded, spraying sparks onto empty seats and crackling loudly until automated circuit breakers kicked in to cut off the flow of power to the damaged panel. An acrid odor lingered after the sparks ceased erupting.
Spock took control of Galileo’s weapons, retaliating with their phasers. He briefly entertained the hope that the smugglers would choose retreat as well, but evidence suggested they intended to finish the fight. He suspected their motives were as much emotional as they were calculated, but it was the nature of emotions to provoke violent behavior. His own people’s history had proved that millennia ago.
A disruptor blast struck the underside of the shuttlecraft. The sensation was not unlike a marmot-drawn wagon hitting a bump at high speed. A schematic of Galileo appeared upon a display screen; a portion of the schematic flashed scarlet, relaying bad news about the ship’s structural integrity.
“We’ve lost the starboard landing pad,” Chekov said, reading the schematic. “I hate to say it, Mister Spock, but I’m afraid we are outgunned.”
“So it appears,” Spock agreed. Their shields were holding—barely—at a mere 26.021 percent of their desired strength. “Nor do our opponents seem inclined to let us withdraw from the field.”
He assembled the data he had already accumulated regarding the smugglers, their vessel, and their operations and transmitted it in a packet back to the Federation observers on Yurnos. It was imperative that the results of his and Chekov’s investigation survive even if they and Galileo did not.
“Feeling the heat, Vulcan?” Venus hailed them to gloat. “Bet you wish you’d stayed out of our business now. We gave you a chance to back off, but you just had to give us a hard time for trying to make an honest-ish living. This is all on you. But don’t feel too bad. Maybe your precious Starfleet will award you both medals . . . posthumously.”
Chekov switched off the comm, which Spock had little objection to. Venus and her cohorts clearly had no desire to engage in a meaningful dialogue.
“Mister Spock,” Chekov whispered urgently, even though no one could hear. “Take the helm. I have an idea!”
He quickly explained his brainstorm to Spock, who deemed it worth attempting. He took control of the helm from the copilot’s seat. “Proceed, Ensign.”
Chekov opened a new channel on a specific frequency.
“Hailing U.S.S. Enterprise. This is Galileo. Do you read me? This is Ensign Pavel Chekov, hailing Captain James T. Kirk.” He placed unusual stress on the captain’s name. “Please respond, Captain Kirk.”
“Chekov?” Vankov responded from Yurnos. “I don’t understand. What do you—”
“Good to hear your voice, Captain Kirk,” Chekov said hastily. “We have good news to report to you and Enterprise.”
Chekov’s scheme depended on Vankov swiftly grasping and playing along with the ruse. To his credit, the anthropologist caught on quickly. He lowered his voice an octave and assumed a more authoritative tone.
“Kirk here, Ensign. What is your report?”
“Your plan is succeeding, Captain. We have engaged the smugglers, who have taken the bait. We are leading them toward you now. You may emerge from hiding behind Yurnos’s moon. Come and get them!”
“Affirmative, Ensign Chekov! We are on our way. Keep them busy until we get there!”
“Don’t worry, Captain. We’ve got them right where we want them.”
Spock did not know whether to be impressed or appalled by Chekov’s mendacity. He was clearly developing a talent for it, perhaps in emulation of a certain James T. Kirk, who had been known to bluff his way out of a difficult situation. Chekov had evidently been paying attention to his captain’s tactics.
The deception had the desired effect. The barrage of disruptor beams terminated abruptly as, according to Spock’s sensors, the smugglers abandoned their pursuit of Galileo and took off in the opposite direction. It appeared that even the possibility of facing off against a Constitution-class starship was enough to make them lose their appetite for combat.
Spock could not fault their logic in that regard.
“Well done, Ensign. A creative solution.”
“Thank you, Mister Spock.” Chekov watched the smugglers’ craft speed out of sensor range. “I have to say, though, I hate letting those villains get away, after all they have done.”
Spock understood how the young man felt, but he kept his focus on the larger picture.
“Apprehending the actual smugglers was never our priority. Halting their activities on Yurnos was our mission, and I believe we now have enough information to make that possible. We discovered who and where they were getting the nabbia from, we determined how they were smuggling the tea off the planet, and, perhaps, we convinced them that Starfleet is no longer blind to their activities, which may be enough to discourage them from returning to Yurnos altogether. In addition, we now have full scans of their spacecraft, including their energy signatures, so it is unlikely that they will be able to elude Starfleet for long. In short,” Spock concluded, “there is no logical reason why they must be captured at this particular point of time.”
“I know, I know, Mister Spock, but it still goes against the grain.” He gave Spock an apologetic look. “It is an emotional thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You might be surprised, Ensign, but as we explained to Eefa on the beach not too long ago: sometimes the most logical thing to do is to step away from the fight.” He turned the helm back over to Chekov, confident the young officer would not be so foolish as to take off in pursuit of the smugglers. “For the record, Chekov, I do not fault you for possessing human emotions, but I do commend you for having the discipline and maturity to control them.”
“Thank you, Mister Spock. That is high praise, coming from you.”
He raised the blast shutters to permit them a better view of vast depths of space before them. The smugglers’ craft was nowhere to be seen.
“Shall I set course back for Yurnos, sir?”
Spock shook his head. “I think not, Ensign. We have accomplished enough there for now. Set course for Baldur III . . . and the Enterprise.”